


Clockwork

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 07:58:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10158107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Here's a potential AU where Bea lives and doesn't rush out, choosing to stay by Allie's side. Joan gets out scott-free and life goes on. A S5 possibility in our wildest dreams.Being a prisoner in the place you sought to “fix” puts quite a bit into perspective.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is also terrible, but I had forgotten Shane's name and I kept writing Shaun originally. Yikes! This image has been seared into my brain for quite some time. I wish that S5 would go in a billion different direction and I'm quite nervous for the honest outcome!

That heavy, iron door opens and she's free. Joan Ferguson walks tall, her head set straight. Her father always warned her to never slouch. To stand tall exalts a sort of pride that frightens your opponents. Within her powerful grip, her set of keys jingle.

A reverent silence decorates the mid-day sky. Bea Smith does not rush out with a shiv. Nor does the Top Dog sacrifice herself in the name of martyrdom. Instead, she sits by Allie Novak's side, her eyes glassy as they watch the hands on the clock move lower. It's a thought Joan entertains, albeit briefly. Love is a weakness she's risked once. Never again.

Somehow, the air outside of Wentworth feels different. Cleaner, crisper. Now, she experiences what countless of freed inmates have felt before her. She inhales though it sounds more like a drawn out sigh. Like clockwork, she walks to her car as though an arduous shift of playing governor has come to a sudden end.

She slides into the worn leather of her vehicle. It's familiar. It's safe. Within the glove box, there lies a small bottle of hand sanitizer. Liberally, she squirts it into the palm of her hands. Joan runs her thumbs over her knuckles, her dark eyes shining brighter than obsidian. She imagines Vera's legs quivering beneath her trousers; she imagines Vera's crowns pulled from her uniform.

Joan doesn't smile.

The drive ahead of her is a quiet one. She does not listen to the radio. She does not listen to the news reporters that flock like vultures to a carcass called scandal. She does not roll down the window 'lest air pollutants creep inside. Instead, she takes this time to decompress. Her head moves from left to right, joints cracking in the process. Her rigid jaw works itself, her eyes focused on the road ahead.

Being a prisoner in the place you sought to “fix” puts quite a bit into perspective.

At home, everything falls into place. She finds herself operating on auto-pilot. She locks the door behind her. Plops the keys in their ceramic bowl, but the smell of this place is wrong. It's not her home. It's become another house. A lived in husk to compensate for feelings she could never reciprocate.

Traces of Shane remain. There's a shirt sprawled across the sofa. A sneaker turned upside down for the sake of an impressionist movement. Empty liquor bottles adorn the rug. Had she raised Jianna's son, this would have never happened. Shane Butler would have kept Jianna's memory well-preserved. He would have been studious, loyal, trustworthy. An atonement. He would have never been a delinquent. In disgust, she wrinkles her nose.

Wordlessly, Joan Ferguson sets to work. She pulls her ponytail into a tight, restrained bun. Three bobby pins to keep it all in place. She slips on a pair of latex gloves that squelch from the sensation. Beneath the kitchen sink, Joan locates a black plastic bucket. Soap and water fill the container. Dipping the sponge into the pail, she begins to cleanse and purge. Scrubs the floors and walls from top to bottom.

For all of the dirty work, she should have invested in a mask or a cleaner, but no one could match Joan's rigorous standards. Her knees aren't what they used to be. Her hands redden from the gusto of her cleaning. The soap isn't enough. So, she resorts to using excessive amounts of bleach. The clinical smell permeates her senses. It's dizzying. There have been worse pains that she has suffered from. No, she persists. She _endures_.

By the end of the night, she'll dump the contents into the sink, watching the filthy water swirl down the drain. That, too, will need to be cleaned. For now, she occupies herself by gathering Shane's garbage and dumping it into a shiny, black bag. The takeout abandoned in the fresh joins the trash. The freezer lays barren, devoid of vodka, her beloved consumption. On average, a human being produces four pounds of waste within a day. She thinks of this when she strips the sheets and chooses to throw them away as well. Yet again, she's made herself into an anomaly.

The chemical smell represents a sort of rebirth. Still, this home feels dirty. She opened her door to Jianna's ghost and somehow, the image has become even more tainted.

With fresh sheets, she makes her bed. Her lonely, little nest that she has always preferred to the company of wolves. Hours have passed. At last, she finishes her task. She pries off the gloves, only to discard her. The reward comes in the guise of a struggle. There, she struggling to find her inner peace when the chaos of waves rushes inside of her: this darkness that she can (cannot) control. Diligently, she closes her eyes and scrubs her scalp, but the memory of the bashing cuts fresh.

It's there that she flinches.

Alone, she remembers.

After the shower, she climbs out, purged of all that has transpired. Joan eases into something a tad more comfortable – a plum-colored, satin pajama set that buttons up. With the changing seasons, it's too warm to pull on her favorite grey robe. It remains in her closet, untouched, alongside the touched photos of Jianna in a box that has become her coffin.

In the bedroom, she reaches for a vial of jasmine hand lotion. She applies a gracious pump of lotion to her hands. Rubs it in. The motion soothes her. Not only that, but it helps to avoid the cracking of her skin. It's these little things that bring Joan peace.

The many hours of solitude have finally begun to gnaw at her. She descends the stairs, only to switch on the radio to a classical station. At a moderate volume, Stravinsky's _Danse Infernale_ begins to play. In the liquor cabinet, Joan manages to look a bottle of vintage Shiraz. As a treat, she uncorks the wine. Pours herself a gracious glass. It's earned and well-deserved.

At last, she sits herself at the host's end of the table. She runs her fingertip along the stem of her Swarovski crystal glass. In a lonely sort of toast, Joan raises her glass. Freedom is a bittersweet sensation.

A small smile graces her lips. It is all that she can permit.

The wine rinses her palette of Wentworth's bland cafeteria meals. Despite preparing the food herself, it lacked flavor. Spices. It tasted of a caged monotony she did not enjoy. She swallows a mouthful of the tart liquid.

And yet, that place is all she has. It has become her past, present, and future. To abandon her calling would be to abandon the battle.

Where to strike first? _Think, Joan, think._ Her forefinger taps the table four times with a stagnant pause in between, never more.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Another possibility I had thought of was this: what if Joan offered to continue mentoring Vera while Vera maintained the governorship? With everything that has transpired between them in past seasons, this would take a great deal of tweaking and canon divergence to work out.


End file.
